


Playtime

by bactaqueen



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Cunnilingus, F/M, Manual stimulation, femdom!reader, shibari-inspired bondage, sub!Steve, use of "baby" as term of endearment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve lets you tie him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playtime

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.
> 
> **Author's Note:** Got an "anon" request a while ago for Reader/sub!Steve, a friend suggested shibari, and I've got bingo cards. I hope you enjoy it, anon!

"Did you ever play?"

"Play...?" Steve looks confused for a moment, then his eyes fall to the pictures scattered across his coffee table. "Oh. _Play._ Yeah, sometimes, I guess. Just with stuff we had around, wasn't like we went out and bought special equipment like they do now." He smirks, a little, transported back through memory. "Belts and Sunday ties, mostly."

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah," he says automatically, and because of your eyes on him, he pauses and frowns and seems to give it real consideration. Eventually, he says, "Yes," and the word has more weight, isn't so dismissive. "I guess it didn't seem as important after I joined up. Life was exciting enough." He starts to smile, but the smile falls, and his cheeks go pink.

Ah, there it is, you think; just what you were waiting for. "What?"

"It wasn't just the excitement I liked. It just... I just realized." He blinks and looks at you, then drops his eyes again to the pictures. His shoulders slope, deliberate relaxation, and his lips just barely curve up. "I thought it was just the excitement 'cause everything was so boring."

"But it wasn't."

Slowly, he stretches out. Spreads his knees wider, slouches and leans back into the depth of the couch, puts one arm out along the back of it opposite you. He's open. And he's thinking, if that little frown on his face and furrow between his brows is anything to go on. He seems to be looking past the pictures, past the table, into the past. "No," he says quietly, after several long silent moments.

You sip you wine and try to keep the question casual. "You ever think about playing again?"

But it doesn't fool him, of course it doesn't. Steve cuts his eyes at you, his eyes bright, the flush on his cheeks just a little higher. "You asking?"

You don't say anything. You don't have to and you know it. You rest the rim of your glass against your lower lip and just look at him. Waiting.

He reaches for your hand resting on your thigh. He links his fingers with yours and runs his callused thumb back and forth along your skin. "What do you like?" he asks softly.

You glance at the photos. Isn't it obvious? You squeeze his fingers. He's a smart guy. He'll figure it out.

He huffs a laugh, low and self-conscious.

You smile at him, slow and indulgent. "I like being in charge. I like how it looks."

"It's pretty," he agrees, and you're pretty sure it isn't just the fact that the women in your pictures are naked. His lips twitch. "I don't know if it'll be that pretty with me, though." He gives you a curious look. "You even got rope long enough? I'm a little bigger than--" He flushes.

There's a whole portfolio you left at home, full of pictures of men like him twisted and bound just like your girls. But he doesn't have to know he won't be your first. "I think I can find some."

"Yeah?" His thumb moves back and forth over your skin, still, slow and even, and you get the sense that touch is important for him right now. He looks back at the pictures. "You'd like it?"

"Yes." You wait for him to look at you. "What about you?"

He doesn't answer right away. He raises your hand and pitches over far enough to kiss your knuckles. With his lips against your skin, he says, quietly, "I think I'd like it, too."

You twist your fingers out of his grip to rest them along his jaw. You rub the pad of your thumb over his lower lip. "I'll take good care of you, Steve."

He shivers and his eyes go dark. "Yeah. All right."

 

***

 

A week later, he's waiting just like he promised he would be: naked, on top of the plaid comforter on his bed. You set your bag down on the bench at the foot of his bed and take a moment to take him in, eyes skating over all that bare skin, lingering on the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes deep and even.

"Are you warm enough?"

He starts. Maybe he wasn't expecting you to speak. He says, "Yeah," immediately and without thinking.

But you can see the blue-purple splotches on his Irish skin. "Steve," you say, voice low and firm.

He shifts. "Could be a little warmer," he admits, finally, after flexing his toes and bumping his knees together.

_Good boy_ is on the tip of your tongue. You swallow it and scan his bedroom walls. "Where's the thermostat?"

"Isn't one. There's a radiator--"

Behind the curtains, you assume. You're already moving toward them before he can make to get off the bed. "I got it." Just in case there's any confusion. You sweep the heavy brown curtains aside and fold them up so you can tuck them onto the ledge of the window. When you turn on the radiator, it rattles to life.

"Did you get the chance to shower?" you ask as you move back toward the bed.

"Yeah. I, uh. I used that soap you left me."

The little square of lavender soap. You smile. "Did you like it?"

He shrugs. "It smelled good. Don't know if it really relaxed me, though."

"Hmm. I guess we'll find out." Back at the bench, you open your bag and pull out the big bottle of lavender massage oil.

Steve lifts his head off the pillow to look at you. He sees the bottle and raises an eyebrow. "You gonna feel me up to make sure I'm not tense?"

The oil is cool when you squeeze it out into your palm. You snap the cap closed and smile at him. "Yeah. You got a problem with that?"

He just laughs like he doesn't believe you.

But he gets quiet fast when you set your hands to his foot.

"You were serious," he says softly, frowning.

You push your fingers between his toes and tug. "Stop thinking, Steve."

He flexes his toes, his whole foot. "That feels weird."

You pause, one hand cupped over his toes, one hand curved around the side of his foot, your thumb grazing the arch. "Do you want me to stop?"

He doesn't answer right away. You stroke your thumb along the ball of his foot, just under his toes, and you wait.

Finally, he says, "No." His voice is low and now he's holding onto the comforter.

"Good."

You use your thumbs on the ball of his foot, on his arch, on his heel, and work your way from his toes to his ankle. He doesn't make you stop, so you keep going, lifting his leg and resting his heel against your hip and massaging up his calf until you can't reach any further without bending over. You set his foot flat on the bed, his knee up, and you move closer, sliding your hands up his thigh.

Steve moves his legs apart, just enough so that you can push your hand up his inner thigh without touching the other. You avoid his crotch, his dick soft, resting against his balls, but the word is there in your mind, a promise to both of you: _soon._

The oil absorbs quickly, leaving him and your hands and the warming air smelling of lavender.

His hands have unfisted from the comforter. They rest now, fingers spread, not clutching. He takes a deep breath as you go back for more oil. When you set hands to his foot again, his breath catches.

"I like that," he says. His voice is rough.

You set his foot against your hip and run your hands over his ankle, up his calf. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He's pink from the tops of his cheeks to just above his nipples, but he opens his eyes and meets yours. "My feet."

You drag your hands down again to hold his foot and push your fingers between his toes. You smile at him, small and teasing. "They look pretty rough. You could do with a pedicure."

For a moment, he looks flustered. "I just-- I spend so much time in the boots--"

It's too cute. You know what he means, or you think you do, and the point of this isn't to embarrass him. "Hush. You don't have to justify it, baby. We'll do it more." You wait for him to look at you again, relief clearing his expression, and you wink at him. "Don't tell anyone, but I like it, too."

He laughs. "Who am I going to tell?"

You push your hands up his thigh, feeling along the muscles starting to relax, finally. "I don't know, you might be the kind of guy to kiss and tell."

He huffs. "Not me."

You rest your hands on his hips and wait 'til he looks at you again. "Sure." You wink again.

He laughs.

It's good that he's laughing. He seemed a little edgy when you talked this out and you'd worried; you'd come into this ready to end it quick. You're willing to take it as slow as he needs, but if he's willing to give this to you, you're going to take it. You want it.

You dig your nails into his hips, lightly, just enough to catch his attention and hold it. "Ready for the ropes?"

He swallows. He takes a moment. You watch him collect himself, watch him take a deep breath, catch the slight curl of his fingers against the comforter.

Finally, he says, "Yes." Before you can even ask, his lips twist in a little smirk, and he adds, "Green."

You smack the side of his hip as you stand up straight. "Good boy."

He jerks, and it's not a bad flinch. He laughs, maybe at himself. "You always beat your good boys?"

"I only beat my _best_ boys, so if that's what you're after, watch your mouth." You squeeze his thigh, just over his knee.

He swallows hard. "Yes, ma'am."

You move back to the foot of the bed and pull the first skein of rope from your bag. "Get down on the floor."

He lifts his head and gives you a curious look. "Get down on the...?"

"Floor," you repeat, and start uncoiling the rope, and you wait.

You'll be as patient as he needs you to be.

He looks at you for another long moment, then says, "Lie down?"

"Yes."

Without another word, he rolls smoothly off the bed and lands flat on his back on the rug. Only a muffled _thump_ even lets you know he's landed.

"Practiced that much?" You laugh.

"I keep the shield under the bed," he says, as if that explains it.

And maybe it does. You hold the ends of the rope and let the rest of it fall to the floor. "Is it there now?" Tonight isn't about work, but it's also not about making him uncomfortable, and sometimes you think the shield is kind of like a security blanket for him.

He's making himself comfortable on the rug, a little smile on his face. "Not tonight."

You hold the ends of the rope in one hand and run the length of it through your other as you move to his side. He left enough space for you between him and the bed; you make the mental note to reward him for that foresight later.

"Good boy," you tell him again, sinking slowly to your knees beside him. "Ready for this?"

His fingers flex against the rug, but he's not tense. "Yes."

You tap the ends of the rope against his knee. "Up."

He positions his leg just like the girl in those first pictures you showed him, his knee up, his calf close to his thigh.

You slip the tail of the rope through the bight and drop the resulting loop over his knee until it's nearly to his ankle and his crotch. Fingers tucked between the rope and his hot skin let you know that it's loose enough before you start winding the rope around his leg. You slide your fingers around and around, keeping them between skin and rope, just to be sure it never gets too tight. As you do this, slow and careful, you watch his face.

With each loop of the rope around his leg, he seems to relax. His eyes slip shut and his breathing goes slow and deep and even. You take your time and draw it out. When you've used enough of the rope, you pause. You stroke the tips of your fingers from the inside of his thigh all the way up to his knee, over the soft twisted rope.

He sucks in a deep breath.

His cock has started to firm up.

He's still not stopping you, so you slip the tails through the bight and pull gently until everything is snug, but not tight. There's enough space still between his ankle and the bottom curve of his ass for you to push the tails through to the other side. You touch the inside of his leg, high, stroke your fingertips up and back until you can grasp the tails of the rope and pull them through. His dick twitches against his thigh. He exhales.

You tuck the tails back under the rope and pull them out near his ankle again, then push them back through between his thigh and his ankle. You slide them up the inside of the rope, in the valley between his calf and his thigh, toward his knee, and you pull it snug.

He sucks in another deep breath, sharp and short this time.

It makes you pause. You wait, but he doesn't say anything. The curl of his fingers against the rug isn't frantic and the look on his face isn't panicked. He spreads his flat leg away from the one you're holding and, finally, exhales slowly. He's trembling, a little, and you look him over. The flush on his neck, on his chest, his peaked nipples and his thickening cock answer you. You don't need to ask.

You finish tying off the rope. You stroke your fingers around it, over his thigh and his calf, along the rope on the inside of his thigh. You swirl fingers over his knee.

"How does that feel?" you ask, voice low.

His voice comes faraway. "It's good."

"I'm going to keep going."

"Yes."

When you bend to drop a kiss to his kneecap, you let your hair brush his skin. Then you pull another bundle of rope from your bag and move to the other side of him.

He doesn't have to be told to lift his knee, he doesn't have to be guided to position his leg. For that, his knee gets a kiss. The words stick in your throat, the praise you want to give him, but you know Steve. You don't want him to balk, you don't want him to pull out of his head. Telling him now how well he's doing when he's not doing much of anything, before he's in deep enough, telling him how good he is and how proud you are of him will ruin the whole thing. So you kiss his skin again, this time the inside of his knee. And you make the bight and the lark's head, you wind the soft rope around his thigh and his shin, you slip the ends of the rope through and back and forth and up and down until you can pull it all snug, but not so snug you can't slip your fingers in against his skin, not so tight it'll hurt him.

His toes curl in the rug when you move between his legs. He braces himself with his heels, just enough to give him the leverage to rock his hips just a little. Because you're there, and because he's not stopping you, you run your hands up the insides of his legs, from his knees to where his thighs meet his body. With your thumbs and fingers, you frame his cock. He's hard now, but he's not ruddy, not dripping. You run a fingertip up from the seam of his balls to the tip of his cock.

He shudders.

You lean over him, bracing a hand on the floor near his shoulder. Very lightly, you run your palm up and down the length of him.

"Hey."

His eyes are cloudy when he opens them, his gaze faraway. He smiles. "Hey."

You let yourself take the time to really look at him now, taking in the lines on his forehead, the shape of his eyebrows, the length of his lashes, the flush on his cheeks. His wide pupils. His wet lips.

You kiss him lightly. "Ready to sit up?"

He nods. His tongue flicks over his lips.

It looks like a request to you. You kiss him again, light and sweet, and pull back just far enough to say, "Let me help." You slide your arms under his back and pull.

He shifts his legs and leans up, and together, the two of you get him into a kneeling position with his legs spread wide and you still between them.

Steve looks a lot flushed and his hair's a mess. But he's close and warm and you're not in any hurry. You shift closer, walking on your knees until they're nudged up against the insides of his thighs, warm around the rope. You push his hair off his forehead, touch fingertips to his cheeks and to his mouth. He turns his face so he can kiss your fingertips, then cuts his eyes at you.

You tuck fingers under his chin and pull him in so you can kiss his mouth, light, a tease. "Ready for more?"

"Yes." He tips forward like he wants another kiss, then seems to remember himself and shifts back.

_Good boy,_ you think, and lean in to reward him with another kiss, lips parted and tongue touched to his. He sighs happily into the kiss and sinks lower on his knees.

As you pull back, you run your fingers through his hair, scrape your nails against his scalp. When he opens his eyes, they're shining and dark.

"Fold your arms behind your back."

He smiles a little. He looks like he's floating. His arms go up behind his back, folded one behind the other, and he cups his own elbows. He tips his head to look up at you as you stand, and he's being so well-behaved you don't resist running your fingers through his hair again.

He leans in to your touch.

Slowly, giving him time to collect himself, you step away. You collect the last bundle of rope from your bag and start to unravel it, letting it fall to the rug as you circle behind him. He shifts to bring his knees in, so he's sitting higher, closer to you, giving you better access to his arms. He tips his head forward like he's praying, presenting the beautiful line of the back of his neck. You hook a finger into the bight and let the rest of the rope fall. You run the other fingertips down the back of his neck, so light goosebumps rise on his skin.

He shivers.

You sink slowly to your knees behind him. Your reach is long enough, you think, to wind the rope around him just like this; walking is too much movement, too distracting, and as close as he is to where he needs to be--where you want him, where he wants to go--you don't want any distractions.

Except for these, of course, as you kiss the back of his neck and the back of his shoulder. He inhales softly.

You bring the bight up between his arms and his spine. Steve turns his face just far enough for you to see his eyelids drooping, the smile curving his lips. It's as clear as if he'd said "green," so you keep going, slow, looping the rope around his wrists until you've used enough of it. His head is still tipped and his shoulders are still sloped. You kiss the back of his shoulder again, kiss the bump of his spine at the base of his neck, kiss your way up the back of his neck to the edge of his hair and back down. As you kiss the freckles across his shoulders, you slip fingers between the rope and the warm skin of his wrists, checking that it's not too tight. Satisfied, you pass the lark's head under the bands of the rope and tie it off with a slip knot. It's unlikely the situation will require quick release of his arms, but it's always nice to leave your options open.

You nuzzle his neck and the back of his ear. "Ready for more?"

He shivers again and leans back into you. When you peek over his shoulder, you see his hard cock fighting gravity and losing, wet at the tip.

"Yes." His voice is hoarse. "Please."

With the rope in one hand, you run your free hand up his spine, up his neck, until you can spread your fingers through his hair. You grab--more forcefully than he's expecting--and pull--not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to surprise him, to get his attention. His eyes roll back and he looks at you with blown pupils. His expression is serene, but his skin is flushed nearly as red as his dick.

You kiss his cheek. "You don't have to beg, baby."

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. His lips part, his tongue flicks out.

Oh, he's so good at asking without words, and there's no reason to deny him. His mouth is warm and his lips are soft and he sighs into the kiss.

When you break the kiss, he looks lost for a moment. You stroke your thumb down the back of his neck and he sinks a little, goes still and waits. You kiss the top of his head as you hook the rope over the fingers of one hand and use the other to bring it around his chest, positioning it carefully halfway between his nipples and his collarbone. You tuck the tails under the rope at your fingers and wrap the length of it around the other way, this time under the ample curve of his pecs. Around it goes one more time, the tails tucked again, back the other way just under the last lines of rope, before you hold the tails and slip an arm around him to slide fingers between rope and skin to test the give of it below and above his pecs. Satisfied, you tweak his nipples, just to feel his body bow, just to listen to his quiet, desperate moan. You kiss the curve of his neck, setting teeth to skin just to tease, and tie off the rope.

Then you sit back on your heels and admire the picture he makes.

Maybe next time, he'll let you bring your camera.

As if sensing your thoughts--and maybe he does, he's an artist, too, after all--he lifts his head and squares his shoulders. It looks like effort, he's so far gone.

"How do I look?"

Something about the way he says it, or maybe it's the wry quirk of his lips, has you running fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair. Again, you grip and twist, not hard but hard enough, and you nudge his head back down.

"Don't get mouthy now."

"What are you going to do?" His words are slurred a little and his shoulders are drooping. "Slap me?" Like it's a challenge.

Like it's a request.

"Not tonight." Maybe another time. Maybe not ever. Maybe you'll see. You graze the tips of your fingers down the back of his neck, trail them over the ropes and against his skin. You keep going, straight down his spine, stopping only at the dip of his spine where it gives way to the cleft of his ass.

He sucks in a deep breath.

"Not tonight," you say again, idle, answering questions he asked and ones he won't. Briefly, you regret not bringing what you'd need for more; you'll have to pack lube and a toy into the bag when you get home. You squeeze his ass and kiss his shoulder again, and then you rise.

He sags forward. For a moment, you just look at him. He's beautiful, kneeling and bound and flushed and aroused. You put your fingers in his hair again and pull until his head is tipped back. He opens his eyes and blinks at you. He's not quite focused.

"Good?"

He smiles, faraway and dopey. The ring of blue around his pupils is so thin. His breathing is deep and even, and when you push at his head, he goes wherever you guide him. He'll let you do anything to him right now.

"Good," he says.

You know just what you want.

There's another bottle of an unscented oil in the bag. You move to it, letting your touch linger in his hair, on his cheek. He turns his face, chasing that touch. Reluctant to move further away, you reach into the bag, still touching him. Steve catches your fingertips between his lips; the kiss is wet, worshipful, teasing. It's temptation. Smiling at him, you pat his cheek. You slide again to your knees, again behind him.

It's safe now, you think. "You're being so good." You open the bottle and pour too much of the oil out into your hand. It starts warming fast. You click the cap into place and drop the bottle away, letting it roll under the bed but still within reach. You rub your hands together, spreading the oil and letting it warm. "You know that?"

He does, of course he does. But he doesn't say it. He just bows his head.

You start at his shoulders, above the rope, where you've left so many kisses. He's loose now, relaxed, and you should have done this when you were behind him, before you tied him up, but working the tension out of him isn't the goal here; touching him is. You spread your hands over his shoulders, across his back above the rope, down his arms just to the edge of the rope. You press a kiss to the back of his head, just above his hairline, and lean into him as you rub back up to hold his shoulders.

His fingers curl against his arms, digging into his skin. He flexes. You hold still and let him test the ropes. He spreads his knees wider and sinks lower, and he leans back into you, relaxed again.

He's so hot. You spread your fingers in over the front of him, across his chest above the ropes, sliding the edges of your fingers along his collarbones. His head falls back against your shoulder. You kiss his neck, his jaw, his temple as you slide slippery fingers over the rope, curve your hands over his pecs. He turns his face in against your neck and he pants as you tweak his nipples and rub fingers along the under edge of his pecs, right over the rope. Then your hands are sliding down, over the rope, and lower, down the center of him until you can rest your hands light on his belly.

You edge closer to him, running your hands up and down his belly. You nuzzle at the side of his neck and cup his hips, and you feel his breath catch, feel the tension in him as he holds himself still. You stroke your fingers in, along the V of his hips, and then straight down to the insides of his thighs. Your fingers are light on his thighs, down and back up, tugging at the rope, swirling through the fine pale hair there.

Steve arches his back and rocks his hips forward like he's searching for something.

You kiss the hinge of his jaw. "Want it?"

"Yes," he breathes. He doesn't say _please_.

You kiss him again for that.

Hands flat, you drag them up high until you can frame his cock, his balls, with your thumbs, the tips brushing on his mound, your fingers pointed down and curving where his thighs meet his body. You lip his ear.

"I want it, too."

He shudders and makes a tiny sound, a whimper like a moan. He spreads his legs wider.

His balls are hot and tight when you cup them in curved fingers. He sucks in a breath and holds it. You run your thumbs down, right along the root of his cock, until you can hold them, squeeze them gently. He moans low. You kiss the curve of his neck and then higher, feel the jump of his pulse against your lips as you tug on his balls, as you slip the tips of your fingers up high behind them and, for a moment, just hold them. They tighten, draw up. His cock jerks. You roll them gently between your fingers, tease at the seam and behind them, then pull your fingers away, sliding your hands back over his thighs, down and up again.

Steve holds his breath.

You kiss his pulse again. You kiss his neck, his shoulder. You rest your lips on the back of his shoulder, and you let your eyes close. He's so hard. You stroke fingertips the length of him, tip to root and back, again and again, exploring the hot skin, the veins, big and little and in-between. You run your fingertips, the flats of your fingers, the palm of your hand over the head of his cock, smearing wetness.

He shudders and sighs.

You wrap your fingers around his cock and push his foreskin over the head of it; pull back, baring it. You run your hand the length of him once more, over the tip, wetting your palm. He's shaking, twisting a little against you. You wrap your hand around him one more time.

With one arm around his middle, you press close to the back of him, your breasts through your dress on the shelf made by his arms. You nuzzle the back of his neck and the side of it, kiss his hot skin, his neck and behind his ear and just under his hairline. You stroke him slowly, one hand moving up and down smooth. His hips shift, back against you and then forward. He feels restless in your arms and turns his face until his open mouth is hot against your cheek. His jaw works like he wants to say something. You shift up until you can kiss him, until you can hold your mouth close to his and steal his breath, and you move the hand from his middle down. Between what's left of the oil and the mess he's leaking, you can work him with both hands, a twisting perpetual penetration. His hips begin to rock. You let him lead, let him pull back and push forward, let him fuck your hands. But you don't let him go too fast. You make him go slow. It's an easy ride.

It's downright scenic.

Steve's head falls back on your shoulder. His eyes are closed and he's grunting, gasping, groaning soft and short. He spreads his legs as wide as he can, sinks lower until his ass is nearly touching the rug. His back arches. He draws out of your hands, holds and lingers so that your fist is around the head of his cock. Then he pushes forward and comes, and it's splashing over your hands, clearing the distance between him and the bureau.

You kiss his cheek and decide that's something to tease him about later.

He pants, chest heaving, sagging back against you. You stroke him gently a few times. He's still half-hard, firm enough to enjoy. But he draws his hips back and you let him go. He gets too sensitive, you know. Instead you rub his thighs, rub your hands across his belly. You kiss his cheek and his neck and his shoulder. You let him rest back against you. He's heavy, but it's good, because he's yours. While you stroke his skin, you check the ropes, at his legs and at his chest. Satisfied that they're not too tight still, that his skin is still safe, you slide one arm around him in a tight hug and bring the other hand up until you can cup his face, turn him toward you.

You go up on your knees just enough so that you can kiss him from above. You draw it out, long and slow, slipping your tongue into his mouth to tease him, stealing the breath from him.

He's quiet and still when you pull away.

You let him rest his face against your neck and catch his breath. You run you fingers through his hair and brush your lips to his temple.

"How are you doing?"

"I want more," he says, voice low and rough and greedy. He doesn't apologize and doesn't look guilty. He just breathes in deep. "Can I have more?"

You scratch your nails over his scalp and pull at his hair just to watch his eyes close. "What do you want?"

"Can I--" He hesitates, swallowing hard again. "Can I eat you out?"

Your fingers twist in his hair. "You think you earned it?"

He doesn't hesitate now. He just meets your eyes and says, "Yes."

Steady and unwavering. He wants this. You tug his hair again and watch his eyes flutter, use your hold on his hair for balance as you stand. You bend over him, still holding his head back.

"I think you did, too," you tell him softly. Your mouth touches his.

He rises into the kiss.

You pull away, fingers curving to cup his jaw, so you can look down at him. He's redder than before, his hair even more of a mess, damp with sweat at his temples and sticking up all over from your hands. His dick is hard against his thigh. There's still good color in his legs, in his arms. You rub the pad of your thumb over his lips and he captures the tip of it, licks at it. You smile at him.

"Can you move?"

He sucks your thumb into his mouth and rolls his tongue around it. In answer, he shuffles forward on his knees.

"Mmm." You slip your thumb from his mouth with a wet _pop_. "Good." You rub your thumb over his lips, reluctant to stop touching him, and then you back up.

You sit down on the edge of the bed and spread your knees. The skirt of your dress falls between your thighs. You watch his face, and when he looks up at you, you point to the rug right in front of you.

"Come."

He shuffles forward. It's inelegant, but he still makes it look so pretty.

When he's close enough, you lean in, push your fingers through his hair, and kiss him again. You cup the back of his head and pull away just far enough to whisper into his mouth.

"Want a surprise?"

"Yes." It comes out as a hiss against your lips.

You kiss him again, quick, then let him go. You sit up. When you're sure he's watching, you lift your skirt.

He groans long and deep and leans in so fast he nearly falls. He kisses the inside of your knee. "Thank you."

You run fingers through his hair. "You don't thank me, baby."

He nips the inside of your thigh and doesn't say anything. He just shuffles closer, until he's framed between your spread thighs.

You brace a hand behind you on the bed and lean back. You tip your head back and close your eyes, curl your fingers lightly in his hair, and breathe. Steve kisses up your thigh, slow, mouth open and wet, until he can kiss your cunt. He doesn't linger. He kisses down the other thigh, nips the inside of your knee. He pauses, mouth against your skin, and breathes. You run your fingers through his hair, back and forth, and tug gently. He presses closer, pushing your legs wider. You feel the slick part of your labia and catch the scent of yourself. He had to know, but he makes a sound, small and short and surprised, and he kisses up your thigh, parted lips and wet tongue. He's trembling between your knees. You tug his hair and shift your hips, inviting him, giving him permission to just do it already. He kisses your cunt, again, his lips rested against the apex of your slit, and then the tip of his tongue touches you. He's not licking for you, he's licking for a taste, licking to tease.

Your elbow gives out and you let yourself fall back on the bed. You lift a leg over his shoulder and pull him closer with your calf across his back. He comes, willing, making a small happy sound against your mons. He presses a sucking kiss right over where your labia part, and then his lips are sealed around your clitoris and his tongue is moving, his jaw working against the insides of your thighs.

Steve isn't quiet. There are low grunts, soft moans full of feeling, the slick wet sounds as he kisses, as he licks. It's good. It's better than good. You rock your hips up and tighten your grip in his hair, and he holds still, lets you roll your hips, lets you ride his face. Your fingers twist tight in his hair. His tongue is out, formed into the point you need. You thrust against it, chasing your release. He's still, tense, as close to you as he can be.

You grip his hair, nails dug into his scalp at the back of his head, and make yourself slow down.

He whimpers.

This isn't over yet. You want to take your time, to tease yourself, to tease him. You let yourself melt back against the bed, against the soft plaid comforter that smells like him. You tug at his hair. He moves in, following, licking, sucking, sealing his lips once more to you, teasing your clitoris with the tip of his tongue. Just like you teased him. He finds the same unwavering rhythm.

It builds inside you again, the tightening, spiraling, until you're rocking your hips up again, until you're holding him still once more. He keeps moving his tongue and you're coming, cunt pressed tight to his mouth, thighs pressed to his cheeks, fingers tangled in his hair.

Your legs fall apart and you relax back against the bed. He doesn't move away. He kisses your mons, your hip, high on the inside of your thigh. When you don't stop him, he licks at you again, gentle little laps, questions with the tip of his tongue.

You tug his hair, pulling him away.

He makes a small, pleased sound and kisses the inside of your thigh, the inside of your knee as he moves back. He turns into your touch and leaves his open mouth resting against the inside of your knee.

"Kiss?"

Yes, you think. But, "I need a minute." You stroke your fingers back and forth through his hair, gentle.

He nuzzles the inside of your knee, kisses your skin, and waits.

You feel warm and languid, but you know this isn't over. It was good. He was good, good enough he earned more. You push up on one elbow, and he's already lifting on his knees and leaning into you. The smile spreads before you can stop it, and he looks so happy to have made you smile. You kiss him slow. Cupping the back of his head, holding him still, you flick your tongue over his lips and just inside. You lick him clean, lapping just as gently at him as he licked you, his cheeks and his chin and finally his mouth again. You bring your other hand up, rest it along his jaw, and press your thumb to his chin to force his mouth open wide, so you can sweep your tongue in over his, so you can taste yourself. So you can feel him surrender all over again.

He shivers when you break the kiss. You kiss his bottom lip, light, and his chin. You rub your thumb along the bottom edge of his lip and look down, because if you do you can see.

He's hard again. The tip of him, red-purple and exposed, is leaking again. You raise your eyes and he's already waiting for you.

You smile a little and rub your thumb over his lip now. "That good, huh?"

His cheeks pink and his eyes glaze over. "Yeah."

"Yeah." You hold his chin and kiss him again, rolling your tongue against his. "Me, too," you whisper against his lips. You let your hand slide down his throat and to his shoulder. "Scoot back a little, baby."

He does, squirming back on his knees until there's just enough space for you to slide off the bed. You want to return the favor, reward him, but the position would be awkward and awkward means you'd have to stop before you really want to. So this will have to do.

You don't think he'll complain.

Using your knees, you force his legs wide. You settle low on your heels between his thighs, your knees nudged up against the rope. You're as close as you can get without being on top of him, without him being on top of you--and maybe if he's not too tired later, that's still a possibility--sharing the heat of your bodies. You stroke the back of his neck, push your fingers into his hair, and bring him down for another kiss as you slide your hand from his shoulder, down, down. You tease his nipple with the edge of a nail, take your time exploring the ridges of his abdomen, down, down, until you can wrap your hand around his blood-hot, impossibly hard dick.

He gasps, breaking the kiss.

"Fast or slow, baby?"

"Fast." He bites off the _please_.

You dig nails into the soft skin at the back of his neck and keep his mouth close. "Fast."

Lips on his, on his chin so he can pant against you, you jerk him off as fast as you can. His legs spread and he's bearing down, thrusting into your hand. He cries out, short, sharp, into your mouth, and then he's coming, hot and thick over your hand, your wrist, on your thigh and staining your dress. He thrusts a few more times, still stiff in your hand, and then he's pulling away, a small whimper in the back of his throat.

You let him go. You kiss his mouth and rub the back of his neck, and when he starts slumping, you pull him over so he can rest his face against your neck. He's breathing hard and flexing, a little, just testing the tightness of the rope.

It's over.

You kiss his temple. "I got you," you murmur to him, and reach behind him. One tug, and his arms are free.

Immediately to be wrapped around you. His movement is only slightly hindered by the rope still over his chest and his upper arms. He pulls you close, up onto his thighs, and he kisses you, your mouth and your jaw and the side of your neck. You wind your arms around him and loosen the knot for the harness. When it's untied, you put your hands in his hair and push his head back so you can look at him.

"Let's get you into the shower, hmm?"

He blinks. "You don't have to--"

You cut him off with a kiss that lasts until it doesn't seem like he's going to protest anymore.

"Let's get you out of the ropes and into the shower." This time, there's no question in your voice.

His smile is shy and sweet. "Yes, ma'am."

You laugh at him and can't help ruffling his hair. "There's my good boy." Because it makes him laugh, too. You disentangle from him and scoot back.

Before you can ask, he shifts his weight for you, back and forth as you untie him. You make quick work of the knots and tuck your fingers into the rope at the top of his thigh. It slides off easy, like a stocking, first one leg, then the other. You rub at the red skin left behind. It didn't dig in, not enough to be uncomfortable, but it did rub at him. Next time, you think, you'll use softer ropes.

You stand, and hold your hand out to him.

His fingers slide easily over yours, and he lets you fold your hand around his. He doesn't need you to lift him up. You couldn't, anyway. But he takes the steadying hand you offer, and he pulls a little on you as he stands, and that's good enough. He looks a little wobbly on his legs; you slip an arm around him and duck under his arm.

He squeezes your shoulder and starts to say, "Th--"

"Don't." You smile up at him to take the sting out of your voice. "Come on."

In the bathroom, you turn the shower on as hot as he likes, and move his favorite body wash closer. He gives you a curious look as he steps into the tub.

"Aren't you...?"

"I just need a minute," you promise, and swish your skirt and wink up at him. "Someone made a mess."

Briefly, he looks sheepish, but he doesn't apologize, and for that you could kiss him.

There's no real good reason not to, except that you can't reach his face. But you can reach his hand, and so you do, and you turn it over so you can kiss his palm.

"Keep it warm for me."

He swallows hard and nods, then ducks under the spray.

Back in the bedroom, you collect the ropes and wind them quickly. You'll shake them out and store them right later. For now, they go back into your bag. The oil you grope around for under the bed, then leave it on the nightstand. It's early still, he might want a real foot rub; you think he'd enjoy that. You turn down the heat and change the lights and pull down the covers on the bed. You don't know what he's like after, if he gets sleepy or hungry or what he needs, but you want your bases covered just in case.

Minutes later, you're back in the bathroom, slipping out of your dress and leaving it in the sink to soak in cool water. When you draw back the curtain enough to step into the tub behind him, he's facing away from you, his eyes closed and his face turned up into the spray. He looks relaxed.

Good.

You slip your arms around him and kiss the wing of his shoulder.

He turns automatically and gathers you into his arms. So much for getting clean, you think; he's slick and slippery, but his dick is half-hard, prodding against you.

He pushes your wet hair back from your face and gives you a dazzling smile. "That was nice."

You smile back. "I guess you enjoyed yourself?"

He drops a kiss on your lips. Then his big hands are cradling your head and he kisses you again. "A little, sure."

A little. For that, you pinch his ass. He squirms away from your fingers.

"Next time, I'm bringing the blindfold and the riding crop."

He smooths his thumbs over your eyebrows and kisses you again. "Don't tease me."

 


End file.
